


He...

by Aaonnah



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Possible Tearjerker, Post Reichenbach, Reichenbach Feels, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 12:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/887302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aaonnah/pseuds/Aaonnah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John goes back to 221B the evening after Sherlock jumps, these are his thoughts. Warning, not brit-picked or beta'd.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He...

**Author's Note:**

> The writing style here is going for distant yet somehow intimate. I'm not sure how that works, but it's what the first few paragraphs were. I tried to keep it consistent, I think I failed.*shrugs*

Rain is falling against the window. The interior somehow, for all its decoration, seems somehow dulled. Hope has left the remaining resident of 221B Baker Street, and he cannot bring himself to mind. The sky outside is dark grey and dulled, no birds fly across it, or anything else. It seems somehow fitting, as if anything that attempted flight on this day would f...

 

'Why... What... What -happened-? He was... He wasn...' The thoughts fade under the weight of his despair. He remembers at Saint Bart's... Mycroft's shoes sounding as he walked down the hall... Towards Molly as she led him... him in to...

 

Apologies, empty apologies, from Mycroft as he came and went, they weren't enough...before... and they make no difference now, when it's too late. Too late to help anyone after such a betrayal

 

John bows his head; all the thoughts within are tightly contained, ever so carefully. They would lash out if they weren't. But that was _his_ place, not John's. Not usually, at least. Not now, certainly. It's too raw, too fresh.

 

He knew him. He did. Didn't he? So many games, so many harsh words exchanged _"_ _This is my friend, John Watson." "Colleague." "I don't have_   **friends** _"_ _"Wonder why."_ especially at the end...- _"you are_ _ **such**_ _a_ _ **machine**_ _!_ "  _"Alone is what I have, alone protects me." "No, friend_ \- John's arm lashes out. The cordless phone flies across the room, barely missing the window as it hits the shelves.

 

'I knew him. Very well. Have for ages. All of... It wasn't...' This is the one subject, one line of thought, just this _one_ -!... it keeps him from thinking straight for more than a few words. Why can't he think straight? His mental state would have either frustrated Sherlock or made him laugh. It would probably depend on whether or not they'd had a good case recently, he supposes- not in the middle of one, though. John doubted he would have appreciated an assistant that was obviously incompetent. 'No need to step into Anderson's spotlight, either!' John thinks, maybe somewhat callously, after the events of the last forty-eight hours or so. He can't really bring himself to even fake being unbiased. Not now. Not Today. Not when he's “ _ **Dead!**_ ”

 

 

The word flies from his lips, black and dripping with poison. *Frankly tasting not so differently than the thumbs in the crisper. It's the first time he's said it. It won't be the last. But oh, how he wishes it was. Cold fury battles with despair and hopelessness for a few moments, but-without a goal or target-quickly peters out. “Bitterness _is_ paralytic.” John mutters to his leg absently, “and there's nothing left to...” The thought drops off before it can complete, John couldn't say. He can't say.

 

Later, when visiting Sherlock's grave, he speaks truths, but still... he does not say it.

 

 

 

 

 

He will never say.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Work has been edited twice and read 3 times for errors, please tell me if I missed anything.


End file.
